by Carolyn Hart
Annie reached over the bunched coat, caught Inez’s right hand in her own. “I don’t want to make things worse. I don’t want anyone else to be in danger. As soon as the story comes out, everyone will be looking for the woman who met me. They’ll want to know what she looked like, the sound of her voice, whatever I glimpsed of her. Don’t you see? The police will ask me. I can’t tell them. I can’t say she was tall and heavy or little and thin or medium-sized. I can’t say she had a high voice or a low one. Someone might recognize the description and word would get out. It always does. I can’t tell anyone anything because the murderer will be looking, too.”
Inez’s dark eyes gazed at Annie. “What does this have to do with me?” There was a definite reserve in her tone. She pulled away from Annie, folded her arms.
“I need help.” Annie wished for eloquence. She didn’t know the women who had been present at Charlie Jamison’s house. “I want you to find out the name of Gwen’s closest friends. Everyone has friends who are there for them when they’re sick or in trouble or sad. Who did Gwen count on?”
Inez’s stare was challenging. “Call Charlie and ask him.”
Annie had to be honest. “I’m afraid to do that. What if I got names and approached these women? What if I found the right person? People would talk and if the talk reached the murderer, the woman would be in danger. She knows too much. The murderer can’t afford to let her speak.”
Inez looked toward a leather folder on her desk. A teenage girl in a cheerleader’s uniform reached high to catch a tumbling baton.
Annie followed her gaze. The picture captured an image of energy and enthusiasm. And life.
“I’m a single mother.”
Annie heard reluctance edged with fear.
Inez whirled toward Annie, her face imploring. “I have to think of Daniela. She comes first. She needs me.”
“You can find out the names of Gwen’s closest friends without anyone realizing what you are doing. If I tried, everyone would talk and then the danger would be huge. You can be casual, offhand. You help with funerals. Tell Charlie you think it would be gracious to reach out to Gwen’s closest friends, ask them to have a role at the reception. Then all you have to do is call them. There’s no way anyone in the Grant family would ever know. You can use a public phone, whisper.” Just as Gwen’s friend had done when she called Annie. “No one will ever know. No one saw me come here. There’s nothing to link you to me. There will be nothing to link you to the woman at the pier. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
Inez’s narrow, intelligent face was thoughtful. “It could be done. I know a phone I could use. The number wouldn’t be any more closely associated with me than with many others.”
As if Inez had announced her intention, Annie pictured an extension at the Shady Grove Baptist Church. That would be good. That would reassure those receiving her call.
Inez spoke slowly. “I’m not promising, but I’ll try. What should I say?”
Annie felt an overwhelming rush of relief. She picked her words carefully. “Tell them, ‘If you met Annie Darling at the pier, you may be in danger because of the story in the Gazette. It is urgent that you call her.’” Annie gave her cell phone number, watched as Inez wrote it down. “‘Or contact the police, tell them who Gwen saw that night, then you’ll be safe.’”
Inez leaned back in her chair, her eyes wide. “If the message reaches the right person, you’re asking her to take a risk. Why should the police believe her?” There was a bitter undertone to her voice. “They didn’t believe Robert.”
Annie understood her distrust. “Once she tells the police what she knows, she’ll be safe. That’s what matters. Who cares what the police think? What matters is that everyone must know she’s given the information to the police and it won’t do any good to come after her.”
“Murderers don’t think straight.” Inez lifted a hand to forestall Annie’s protest. “I said I’d call. I will.” She gave Annie a puzzled stare. “You’re going to a lot of trouble for a woman you don’t know.”
Annie turned her hands palms up. “It’s my mess. I have to clean it up.”
A sudden smile transformed Inez’s face. She leaned forward, gave Annie a quick, hard hug.
It didn’t melt the cold spot of fear in Annie’s heart.
Max walked into Confidential Commissions, buoyant as if treading on clouds. Robert would soon be free. That lifted a ton of misery from Max’s shoulders. A kid with a good-for-nothing rep found with a murder weapon in his trunk could easily have been convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. Max broke off to sniff. The rich scent of dark chocolate hung in the air.
Barb poked her head out from the back room, which doubled as her office kitchen. She smiled at his wrinkled nose. “Decadent brownies. Chunks of Ghirardelli.” She brushed flour from the cerise apron protecting her cream-colored dress. “You sound cheerful. Maybe you can cheer up Geoff Grant. He keeps calling, wanting to know where you are and how he can get in touch with Annie. He’s either furious or scared. I didn’t give him her cell.”
Max wasn’t worried about Geoff Grant. Maybe the police were already at the Grant house, pushing to find out more about Monday night. That suited Max fine. He strolled into his office, debated calling Geoff, decided to let him stew. Max settled behind his desk and picked up the morning mail. Ah, there was the small blue pamphlet he received occasionally from a rare book dealer in a quiet village in the Cotswolds. Max eagerly opened it. Would there be any rare Buchans or Chestertons? He was still looking for Buchan’s A Lost Lady of Old Years published in 1899 and Chesterton’s Tremendous Trifles published in 1909. Not even to Annie would he admit that these works attracted him because of their titles. How had the lady been lost? Which trifles seemed tremendous to the philosophical Chesterton?
Max ran his finger down the index.
The phone rang.
Max looked at caller ID, shrugged, picked up the receiver. He felt equal to any encounter today. He hadn’t responded in time to help Gwen Jamison, but he’d saved her son. “Confidential Commissions.” He spoke briskly as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Max, Geoff Grant here.” The words were rushed. “The police have fallen for that story your wife spun. I want some answers.”
“Annie went to the pier.” Max’s voice was hard. “She reported what she was told.”
“And announced it to the world.” Grant’s anger was obvious. “All right, all right.” He made an effort to be conciliatory. “That’s water over the dam now. But we’ve got to get to the bottom of that woman’s tale. Who was she? Was she telling the truth or lying? We’ve got to find her. Your wife saw her run away. I want a description of that woman. She has to be found.”
Annie reached her car without seeing anything but a startled deer who’d bounded away, crashing through undergrowth. Annie slipped behind the wheel, relaxed against the cushion, and breathed deeply. She’d done all she could do for the moment. Now she had to hope that Inez Willis felt safe enough, secure enough, to make those phone calls. Annie wrestled with uncertainty. Should she have given Inez a good description, narrowed down the possibilities to a very few, perhaps pinpointed Gwen’s friend with certainty? Thin and bony. Not young. Perhaps five feet four inches tall, five five at the most. A soft singsong voice.
No. Not to Inez. Not to the police. Not to anyone.
She pulled out her cell phone, turned it on.
One message—11:22 a.m. “Hi, honey.” Max’s voice burbled with good humor. “Robert’s got a solid alibi thanks to yours truly. Posey’s on the warpath. That’s thrown the cop shop into a tizzy. Ditto Geoff Grant. Geoff’s determined to get a description of your informant at Fish Haul pier. I promised Geoff we’d drop by around three. We might glean some information and you can continue to stonewall about the woman. Meet me at Parotti’s for lunch. Love you.”
Annie was glad Robert was exonerated, but Max’s good news did nothing to lessen the fear that weighed on her. If only she hadn’t called Maria
n. If only she could bridle her impulsive nature, jerk the reins, stop and think before she acted. As poets and lovers well knew, words once spoken could not be recalled no matter the tears, no matter the anguish. How many on the island knew the identity of Gwen’s best friend? There were those who would know and please God don’t let hasty gossip point the way for the murderer. Annie clicked save and dialed to pick up messages at Death on Demand. Sergeant Harrison asked her to call the station as soon as possible. Annie felt in no hurry. She’d told the officer everything she knew.
There were two calls from Geoff and one from Rhoda, but that was settled now. She and Max would go to their house at three. She listened again to Rhoda’s message:
11:15 a.m.—“Annie, this is Rhoda Grant. Geoff asked me to call. Truly, we will be most appreciative if you and your husband will join us this afternoon at three for tea and sherry. We’re sure you understand our need to contact the woman who is spreading such a damaging tale about us.”
Annie dropped the phone in her purse, turned on the motor, backed carefully from behind the bamboo. Afternoon tea. How civilized. Gwen Jamison lay lifeless in a morgue, but amber tea would curl into cups. Oh, that dark figure in the corner? The one with a bloodstained hand? Oh, my dear, haven’t you met our murderer?
Ben Parotti plumped the steaming plate in front of Annie. “We heard the news on the morning radio show. The kitchen’s got a pool going on the mysterious woman on the back side of Fish Haul pier. Geoff Grant told the radio the family isn’t involved.”
So much, Annie thought, for the Gazette’s exclusive. But it was good that word was out all over the island.
Ben stepped around the table, placed in front of Max a bowl of steaming chili topped with grated cheese and onions. “I put in a twenty on Gwen’s cousin Lucinda. She could have played fullback for the Tigers if she’d been a boy. If she rowed a boat, it would fly.” His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp.
Annie jabbed at a crisp fried clam and avoided Max’s gaze. She didn’t want to go to the Grant house. It was a relief to joust with Ben. “You tell the kitchen to keep their money and keep on frying the best clams in the Low Country. As far as I know it could have been an old lady or a teenage girl. As I told the police”—she lifted her voice to be heard and was certain that the dozen or so diners in Parotti’s Bar and Grill were listening intently—“I didn’t see the rower. I was on the ladder and I didn’t climb up and reach the end of the pier until the rowboat was almost around the headland.” She’d repeated this spiel so often now, it almost seemed real, but her mind held an indelible image of a small, bony woman hunched over the oars. “I don’t think we’ll ever know. Anyway, what difference does it make? She told me all she knew. She said Gwen was careful not to identify the person she saw.” With that lie Annie poked a forkful of clams into the cocktail sauce.
“Pretty gutsy of you to meet somebody at night on the pier by yourself.” Ben’s tone was admiring. He turned toward Max. “Everybody’s proud of you for helping Robert. I hear he’ll be home tomorrow.”
Max grinned. He didn’t doubt that Ben had up-to-date information. “Everybody helped, especially the Reverend Shelby.”
“‘All’s well that ends well.’” Ben gave them a genial smile and turned back toward the kitchen.
Annie’s fork sank to her plate. Ben quoting Shakespeare didn’t surprise her, but his blithe pronouncement only made her more desperate. There could be no end until the murderer of Gwen Jamison was caught.
“Annie.” Max’s voice was low and urgent though his smile didn’t waver. “People are watching us. Every word you’ve said will be repeated and they’ll describe how you looked and how you sounded.”
Annie forced a smile, but her eyes were stricken. “If the murderer finds Gwen’s friend, it will be my fault.”
Max reached across the table and caught her hand. “She came to you. She could have contacted the police. She can still contact the police. Now, eat with your usual gusto and grin, grin, grin. Everything’s fine in Annie Land. You don’t have a care in the world.” His smile was huge, as if they were enjoying the moment with no clouds on the horizon. Yet his gaze was serious and stern. “We have a gilt-edged invitation, Annie. We have to go to the Grant house this afternoon.”
Annie continued to smile brightly though she felt cold inside. “They want to know about the woman at the pier.”
“Sure they do. You can regale them with the misgivings you felt as you walked out on the pier by yourself into the darkness with only the empty water on both sides and your shock when addressed by an unseen figure. You hope this woman will respond to the urging of police and come forward. You’d be glad to help find the speaker, but, of course, you scarcely had a glimpse of her.” Max lifted his iced-tea glass as if making a toast. “To Robert coming home tomorrow. To the innocent members of the Grant family.”
Annie’s lips felt stiff. She clinked her glass against his. “To Gwen. To her friend.”
Chapter 11
Annie picked up Agatha, nuzzled her face against warm, sweet-smelling fur. “I’m sorry lunch is late.”
Agatha wriggled free and loped toward the coffee bar and her cat bowls nestled against the wall.
Annie shook dry pellets with a yeasty scent into the blue plastic bowl, refreshed the water in the red bowl.
Agatha ate and growled, growled and ate.
“You’ll get indigestion.” Sometimes she worried about Agatha’s longevity. Wasn’t a sunny temperament supposed to increase life span? That was what one study suggested in humans. Laugh, be merry, and tiptoe into the twilight as an octogenarian.
Completing her meal, Agatha proved her mercurial disposition by jumping to the coffee bar and leaning against Annie. A satisfied purr rumbled.
Annie glanced at the telephone. The blinking light signaled more messages. Undoubtedly Officer Harrison was among them. Annie stroked Agatha. “I wish I could stay here and spend the afternoon with you and the books.” She wanted to unpack the new Deborah Crombie books. Instead, the flashing red light beckoned.
Annie sighed. She was only putting off a difficult moment. Annie dialed. The exchange was short and swift. “I’ll be there shortly, Mrs. Darling.” Officer Harrison hung up without a farewell.
Annie wrinkled her nose at the phone, accessed the messages. She deleted messages that didn’t matter (two from Officer Harrison) and listened to three.
12:05 p.m.—“Hal Porter. [His voice sounded strong and untroubled.] I wanted to let you know I’m fine. I left a message for Max, too. Everything’s okay at your house. The carpenter’s there and he said nobody’s been around. I’m working on the birdhouse at the Grant place. I’ve been checking your place every little while and I’ll be there to stay around six. If those kids show up tonight, I’ll be ready for them. Let me know if I can do anything else.”
Hal’s encounter with the black teenagers last night was still a puzzle. Since Robert had been cleared, Hal’s attackers were not Robert’s confederates. However, they could have been friends trying to divert suspicion or possibly adventurous teenagers looking for treasure. Most islanders now knew about Gwen Jamison hiding the packet in the Franklin house, so it was possible the young men were otherwise unconnected to the case. Or was the truth darker and more dangerous, the men somehow involved in the theft? That didn’t jibe with the claim that Gwen recognized the thief as a member of the Grant family.
Annie felt a sudden uncertainty. Could the woman at the pier have been lying? In her mind, she heard the grave, serious voice. “‘It’s gospel, girl…One of the family.’”
Annie knew truth when she heard it. The woman was repeating what she’d been told. One of the family.
If the young black men who’d struck down Hal Porter were involved in the theft, they had to be working at the direction of a family member. Justin and Ben had graduated from the island high school. It was hard to picture Eagle Scout Justin with friends willing to break and enter, but Ben likely was on good terms with the swashbu
cklers in his class. Last night’s duo might have been young men in their twenties, not teenagers as they’d assumed.
The next message was the one she’d hoped for.
12:25 p.m.—“The calls have been made.”
Annie heard the crisp voice with a surge of excitement. If only the mysterious figure responded.
The last message brought a smile.
1:03 p.m.—“Are you boycotting your computer? [Static blurred some words.]…check your e-mail.” [Emma sounded disgusted.]
Annie wondered if the intrepid trio hungered for a crime update or if they had something to contribute. Smiling, she clicked off the phone, turned to go to the storeroom. The bell tinkled at the front door. Annie looked over her shoulder. Her smile slipped away.
Officer Harrison marched determinedly down the central aisle.
Max unloaded a cot, sleeping bag, and provisions. He carried the gear into the kitchen of the Franklin house. Fortunately the appliances had been installed and were in service. He heard the distant whirr of a buzz saw, smelled the sweet scent of fresh lumber. He set up the cot in the drawing room then strolled down the main hall to check the fresh panes in the back window. Sun spilled through the window and the wide hallway was light and airy as he’d known it would be even when the Franklin house had been an abandoned derelict. He made a circuit of the rooms, admiring fresh paint and wallpaper.
This was going to be a happy house for him and for Annie. He grinned, imagining the shrill cry of children’s voices. He stopped at the foot of the steps, looked up. The slick handrail would be irresistible to small adventurers though the figure of the griffin carved in the newel post might preclude flights on the banister. He reached out, tapped the eagle head, felt ridged wooden feathers.
He walked upstairs, his expression thoughtful. The house was almost ready. Everywhere there was freshness—and emptiness. There didn’t seem to be a nook or cranny that would provide a hiding place. Max checked out the master bedroom, the small den that would be a special retreat for him and Annie, the other bedrooms and baths.